


Anatomy Practice

by thebearking



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Black!Reader - Freeform, Established Relationship, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Interracial Relationship, POV Second Person, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II, Reader Of Color - Freeform, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 13:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7465140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebearking/pseuds/thebearking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You discover that Steve has been filling the sketchbook you gave him with raunchy sketches of you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anatomy Practice

**Author's Note:**

> bit of a self-insert here. reader is black and an artist, like steve. they share an apartment. enjoy!

You tried to ignore the feeling of Steve’s gaze on you as you bustled around the kitchen, moving to clean each and every surface while the roast cooked in the oven. Your attempt was futile; Steve’s eyes were intense, so much so that they seemed to burn holes into you. Just how intently was he watching you?

“You know, staring will only get you so far, Stevie,” you called out loudly enough so that he would hear you, glancing at him over your shoulder with a teasing smile.

Your boyfriend was crouched comfortably on the sofa, his back against the armrest as he drew furiously. “S-Sorry, doll,” he apologized, his ears reddening. “You look lovely today, that’s all.”

You grinned and placed the spray bottle and rag on the countertop, leaning against it to watch him. You folded your arms over your stomach, tipping your head to the side. “This good?” you asked.

Steve’s head shot up. “Pardon?”

“Is this pose good enough for ya?” He looked bewildered and ready to ask what you meant by that, but you cut him off. “I know that look, baby. I’m always happy to be your muse.” You cocked your hip to the side dramatically. “Long as you get my curves right.”

Steve laughed nervously, causing you to raise an eyebrow at his unease. “Thank you, sweetheart, but I-I’ve got it under control. You don’t have to pose for me.” He returned to sketching, licking his lips. His thick brows were drawn close together in concentration.

“Oh? Working off your imagination then, are we?” You grinned. When he didn’t reply, you flounced out of the kitchen and settled down on the couch across from him. “Mind giving me a sneak peek?”

“Oh.” He paused, his pencil stilling against the paper as his nose scrunched up in thought. “N-Not right now, doll. I want it to be a surprise. You wouldn’t like it anyway. It’s just”—he swallowed—“pose practice.”

You nodded, humming absently. You noticed that the book in his lap was large, black, and hardbound, different from his usual sketchbook of brown leather. With delight, you realized that it was the sketchbook you had given to him for Christmas. “For bigger ideas,” you’d remarked with a wink as he’d unwrapped it. Seeing him use it now made your heart swell with joy. You loved to be as involved in his artwork as possible, from being his life model to providing supplies for him, whether it be pencils or simply a quiet space for him to work.

“Hey, you’re using the book I got you!” you exclaimed. You got up on your knees to peek over into his lap. “How many pages have you filled?”

Steve shrank back into the armrest, slapping the book flat against his chest. “I-I told you, doll, it’s nothing special.”

You frowned a little. Boy, did it hurt him to see you pout like that, and you knew it. “C’mon, Steve, you know I love every work you’ve ever made. Lemme see.”

“No,” he said definitively, and you reared back, observing him with a look of utter disbelief. He’d never denied you anything so quickly and so forcefully. Steve knew you respected and even admired his artwork; you were an artist yourself, though your work harkened back to the African abstraction and colorful patterns of Harlem artists. No matter how different your style was from Steve’s, you two critiqued each other often, so for him to shut you out so harshly was, in your eyes, concerning and a little irritating.

“Steve,” you said coolly, fixing him with a stern look, “what are you drawing?”

“I-I’m sorry, baby, I just… I don’t wanna show you.”

“Bullshit,” you ground out, and with that, you pounced. Steve fought to keep you away, the sketchbook held protectively to his chest, but you overpowered him easily. You ended up straddling him while he lay on his back, pleading for you to take pity on him. You ignored his pleas and sat back comfortably on top of him, observing him with one austere cocked eyebrow.

“Is it porn?” When his face flushed, you laughed softly, fingering the spine of the book before opening it. “I swear if you’ve been lookin’ at Bucky’s pin-ups, I won’t yell at you, just tease you a little—” You fell silent when you saw the first page.

It was a full-sized, hyperrealistic sketch of you, your own grinning face looking waggishly up at you from the first page. Those were your eyes, your nose, your lips, your curls floating free from your usual headscarf. You were lying on a bed, stark naked, your ankles crossed in the air behind your head, your arms crossed right in front of your— _oh_.

“Doll?” Steve breathed, seeing your eyes widen.

“So you _have_ been lookin’ at Bucky’s pin-ups,” you exhaled, shuffling off of him and settling back on your haunches.

“Doll, I… I can explain—”

“You sure have a vivid imagination, Stevie,” you said distractedly, flipping through the pages. There were more of them than you’d expected: sketches of you peeking up at the viewer flirtatiously from under your lashes, thumbnails of you posing seductively, sometimes in just your undergarments, sometimes in a bathing suit, and sometimes in nothing at all. Some were even colored in, shaded, highlighted, so lifelike that you wondered how Stevie could have possibly drawn all of these without a model. How often did he imagine you like this? Did Steve—your small and prudent Steve—fantasize about you sitting in a chair like you had no idea how to, your legs up and your hair hanging and your eyes closed in ecstasy? Or about you lying on your back on his bed, hands prudely covering your breasts and pelvic region from view while you bit your lower lip and fixed him with a dirty “come-hither” look from upside-down? When all you two had done were steamy kisses? It was mind-boggling. You were glad to already be sitting down as you leaned back against the cushion, the weight of the discovery bearing down on you like a ton of bricks. “You… You draw every girl you meet like this?”

“No! God, no!” Steve blurted.

“You draw Bucky like this?” you continued, only half-joking, so as to prepare yourself if your eyes were to be assaulted with graphic images of your friend as you continued to flip through the pages. One sketch made your eyebrows shoot up toward your hairline; you doubted you could ever bend like that.

Steve blanched. “No! Never! I don’t think of Bucky like that! Hell, I… I wish I didn’t think of _you_ like that, not without your permission. I’m so sorry.” He hung his head, fingers buried in his hair.

You were speechless. Steve, _your_ Stevie, who blushed at couples who got handsy in public and at the racy posters Bucky offered to share with him; who had assured you that he wanted nothing more than to hold your hand and maybe curl up against you as the two of you cuddled; who sighed with relief when you told him that, for the moment, you only wanted the same thing—it was hard to believe that that Steve and the Steve blushing in front of you were the same man.

You continued flipping through the sketchbook until you arrived at an unfinished work, the one Steve had been drawing just minutes ago. It was a rough sketch, but you could see that it was you, sitting on your bed wrapped in the covers, your hair wild and your face aglow with laughter. It was lovely. All of the sketches, no matter how dirty they’d been, were beautiful. You could practically feel the care and adoration Steve had poured into every line, into every detail. You knew Steve saw you as more than a sex object, and the vibe you got from these sketches was neither objectifying nor patronizing; it was adoring, even reverent. Knowing that Steve drew you so often warmed your heart; you realized that there were so many sketches of you because he found you worth drawing, because he found you breathtaking. You found yourself blushing in spite of yourself. You envisioned Steve locked up in his room, drawing furiously while raunchy images of you played out before his own eyes, his face red and his breaths coming in short gasps. You were like his very own pin-up. Being Steve’s dream girl was a role you were more than willing to accept.

Your eyes softened as you finally peeked over at Steve. He was crouched against the armrest again, his face buried in his hands with shame. You worried your bottom lip between your teeth. “Stevie, if all ya needed was a life model—all ya had to do was ask.”

Steve’s head shot up, his eyes wide. “W-What?”

You smirked, rising to your feet. “And if you want more than just 2D fantasies”—you shut the book with a snap and placed it in his trembling hands—“I’m happy to help.”


End file.
